


Doubting Thomas

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Drama, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2018-10-27 12:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10809330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Harry strives for a normal life, but finds that normalcy is not in the   cards for him when someone he thought was out of his life for good   needs his help.





	Doubting Thomas

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** My beta rocks for being thorough. And the lyrics for this story were provided by Nickel Creek

_What will be left when I've drawn my last breath,_  
Besides the folks I've met and the folks who know me,  
Will I discover a soul saving love,  
Or just the dirt above and below me, 

Harry Potter rolled out of bed, settling his feet into the slippers Hermione had gotten him for Christmas to staunch the bitter cold of the wooden floor. He shuffled to his adjoining loo, brushed his teeth, shaved, and threw on a tee shirt and jeans. He opened up his bedroom curtains and smiled at the sunny, brisk morning that filtered through his window. He grabbed his Auror robes and made his way downstairs to the smells of bacon wafting from the kitchen.

Ron was standing at the stove, a ridiculous frilly apron covering up his Wheezes uniform, setting bacon onto a paper towel with his wand.

“Hey mate! Just in time for breakfast!” He smiled, handing him a plate full of bacon and toast.

Hermione shuffled in, her Ministry uniform looking flawlessly pressed, though her hair was still wild and she was rubbing her eyes. Ron held up a piece of bacon and lifted his eyes questioningly. She shook her head and went for the granola bars.

“C’mon Hermione! It’s bacon,” Ron held the bacon in front of her and licked his lips loudly. Hermione smirked, yanked the bacon out of his hand, and chewed it quickly with a smile on her face. Ron sat next to her and began to tuck in to his own plate, summoning the three icy glasses of orange juice carefully from the counter.

After the war and repairing Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and George remodeled Grimmauld Place while Hermione and Ginny were at school. Getting George out of his flat and away from his own demons had kept him if not happy, then at least alive. By the time it was time for the girls to end their seventh year, Harry had a house fit for living, and he began to move his things from The Burrow. Ron and Hermione moved in together and took the other suite room on the top floor of the home. They ignored Molly Weasley’s protestations about impropriety and eventually she quieted. George took his own room there, happily renting out his flat and those awful memories. Angelina Johnson stayed over almost every night, though they thought they were being discreet about it.

Well Ron and Hermione fell into an easy life and a happy relationship, Harry and Ginny disintegrated quickly when she went back to Hogwarts. Harry tried, he desperately tried, and he wanted to have the perfect life and a perfect family with her. He loved her, and she was one of his best friends. The truth of the matter was, their love was something born of need, of war, and of friendship. And in the harsh light of the aftermath, they just didn’t come together the way Ron and Hermione did. Harry still didn’t understand it, and he hoped that once Ginny did some soul searching and he lived on his own for a while, they would get back together. He was concerned that he wasn’t more hurt over their break up, but he chalked it up to a need for space.

“Where’s George? Shop opens in 15 minutes,” Ron asked in between bites.

“He’s probably sneaking Angie out of the front door right now. I wonder why he thinks he needs to hide her from us?” Hermione said, looking genuinely concerned.

“Well it is a bit weird, innit?” Ron answered. “She was with Fred.”

“But that was so long ago! And he’s been so much better lately. I wish he could just be happy out in the open.”

“Just give him time, Hermione,” Harry said, standing to gather the plates.

Kreacher stayed at Grimmauld Place and worked for Harry, refusing pay, but accepting one day off per week. Mondays were his days off and he was gone before Ron came down to make breakfast. Harry didn’t mind, and it kept Hermione quiet. Sometimes, he wondered where Kreacher went.

Things were falling into place better than Harry would have imagined all of those long, lonely nights on the Horcrux hunt. He still had a chasm inside of him, a deep hole that pained in moments of quiet introspection, but Harry figured that he had to take his time to heal before everything felt the way it should. Hermione and Ron told him as much as well. They said he needed to face what happened, what he went to, and try to fill in the pieces. It made sense, so Harry did that.

Last week, he had gotten Snape’s portrait put up in the Headmaster’s office, and finally got him recognition for his real role in the war. Harry felt more complete, he felt like some of the weight had been taken off of his shoulders. But still, something was missing. He fastened his Auror robes and left for work, setting the wards up on his house once George and Ron rushed out. At least he loved his job.

_I'm a doubting Thomas,_  
I took a promise,  
But I do not feel safe,  
Oh me of little faith, 

As long as there wasn’t a sliver of light, they couldn’t see him. The Death Eaters couldn’t hurt him if they couldn’t find him. Voldemort would not be able to torture him, wouldn’t be able to make him hurt others, wouldn’t be able to make him watch his parents be tortured to death if Draco stayed in this room, bathed in darkness, and never left. The obsessive thoughts of paranoia invaded Draco’s every second.

Draco Malfoy cowered into a corner, a thick blanket wrapped around his head, and his body trembling violently. He knew that they were just lurking there, beyond the French Doors, waiting for him to make a sound, to make a move, so they could come and take everything from him…again.

They had already killed his mother and father. He knows the Death Eaters did it. Voldemort probably commanded it. There was no way someone as terrifying as The Dark Lord could be dead. Nothing could kill something that steeled…that dark. Draco waited for the day he would come sweeping back into the Manor and take the last breath he had in his lungs. All Draco had was his life, and he clung to it desperately.

The Manor’s house elves were the only possessions that Draco was allowed to keep when the Ministry took everything from his family and his parents were murdered by vengeful Death Eaters on the run. Draco Malfoy had nothing, and he wanted nothing. He was so afraid of his own shadow that none of his possessions mattered. It was only in moments of rare lucidity that the elves got Draco to eat.

Draco drew out his father’s wand from inside of his silk bathrobe and destroyed the walls in the dining room, causing debris to fall. He moved it so that it would hide him better, and the rest of the elves burst in and turned on every light. Draco screamed, throwing his hands over his head and waiting for them all to come in, discover him, and finally kill him.

Draco could see tall, shadowy figures outside of his fortified room, and he knew the elves had let them in. He knew the Death Eaters that had made his home their killing fields two years ago were back to take everything they could from Draco. He let out a primal scream and continued to shake violently.

After the war, the Malfoy family stood trial. Harry Potter came to speak on Draco and Narcissa’s behalf, and they were cleared of all charges. Lucius Malfoy was only sentenced to one year in Azkaban, successfully arguing that he was coerced. On the day Lucius was released, Narcissa and Draco were waiting for him with smiles on their faces and hope in their eyes.

As Lucius crossed the threshold to freedom to embrace his wife, someone cast a silent spell, and he was killed instantly. Draco screamed and reached over to shield his mother, only to find her lifeless body in a heap on the ground. The auror squad descended on the scene before Draco was allowed to die. Since that day, he lived a half life, hidden in his vast, airy home full of dark, terrifying memories, and relying on house elves to keep him alive.

He felt something cold trickle down his throat as he faded into a deep sleep.

_Sometimes I pray for a slap in the face,  
Then I beg to be spared 'cause I'm a coward,_

Some nights, the nightmares would barrage Harry’s mind incessantly with all of the things he was trying to overcome, and he would spend the night awake, drinking tea, and digging through the old library or random drawers in the kitchen. He found that the more mundane the task, the more at ease he would feel. Harry just wanted normalcy so desperately, that when the sharp reality of what haunted him bubbled to the surface, he swallowed it down with tea and old odds and ends as quickly as possible.

As Harry was reorganizing his silverware drawer, opting to put the knives first in line instead of the forks, he heard the crackling ‘pop’ of his house elf apparating. He turned around to see Kreacher, his head bandaged and bleeding, murmuring sadly to himself and shaking his head. Harry suddenly became even more curious about what Kreacher did on his day off.

“Kreacher?” he asked, and Kreacher jumped, shocked.

“Many apologies, master. I was just going to bed,” he groaned.

“What happened? Do you need a potion or anything?”

Kreacher just shook his head, lifting his wrinkled eyebrows at Harry. As part of his arrangement for retaining his house elf, Kreacher was allowed to have secrets and privacy as well as his own time off. Harry wanted to respect those boundaries, but the grave look on Kreacher’s face had honestly worried Harry.

“Where have you been?” Harry asked, feigning nonchalance.  
  
“Are you ordering me to tell you?” Kreacher said, though the venom one would expect in that statement was absent. Kreacher sounded almost weary.  
  
“No…no. I want you to have your freedom,” Harry paused when Kreacher sneered. “I was just wondering if there was something I could do to help.”

Kreacher stared at the drawer that Harry kept locked in the old desk in the kitchen. Inside that drawer was the bit of Sirius’ mirror, the silver knight that killed Dobby, Draco Malfoy’s Hawthorne wand, Hermione’s beaded purple bag, and Harry’s golden snitch. He never opened that drawer, not for any reason. He had no idea what Kreacher thought he may need in there.

“If you…if you need something from there, I can…I’ll unlock it.”

“Kreacher shall not trouble his master with those things,” The elf shook his head and made it to his new quarters in the cellar. “It will only make things worse, Kreacher thinks.”

“Kreacher! What will make things worse?” Harry was getting frustrated now. He was done with riddles, and puzzles, he just wanted straight answers. He thought his house elf understood that.

“It might do good to get a wizard involved,” Kreacher paused on the steps, his long fingers on his pointed chin.

“Take me to this problem, Kreacher.”

“Yes…yes…”

Suddenly, Kreacher had placed a finger on Harry’s wrist and he was transported. He found himself in a dark, vacant room. The ceilings were three stories high, and the cold drafts and dusty air made it feel like no human had been in the room for months, maybe years. He immediately drew his wand.

“What have you gotten yourself into?”

“I’ve been doing a kindness, sir. I’ve been helping some other elves.”

“Are they sick?”

“No, no they are not.”

As Harry got further into the cavernous great room, the moonlight began to filter through the high, stain glass windows. He looked down at noticed a familiar pattern on the rug. He cried out, his head snapping around madly, reliving the last time he was in this room.

“You’ve tricked me! You’ve taken me to the fucking Malfoys!” Harry accused, drawing his wand on Kreacher.

“I mean you no harm. No one can hurt you here, not nearly as much as you can hurt them.”

“Kreacher, Narcissa and Lucius are dead. Who is living here?”

But even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he knew the answer. Harry hadn’t seen Draco Malfoy since the family’s trial, where he had taken the stand to free Narcissa and help Draco. When the trial was over, Harry washed his hands of them forever. He had no reason to ever speak to them again. He didn’t want to. If he could, he’d lock the memory of the Malfoys in that drawer in the kitchen.

And yet here he was, in the vast, vacant house of a once powerful family…of his once loathsome enemy, trying to make sense of Kreacher’s mysterious behavior. He heard a pained, heartrending cry and knew there was no way out of it now.

(((((((((((((((((())))))))))))))))))))))

)  
  
Draco heard the heavy footfalls in the Great Room and knew that the elves had finally done it. They had put him to sleep, and now that he was awake, they were ready to be rid of him once and for all. Draco welcomed death, and hoped that at least chose to give him up to someone who would make his death as quick and painless as possible. He couldn’t take anymore torture, Draco feared he didn’t have much of his soul left, and he wanted to take it with him wherever he went when he died.  
  
“I know you’re out there! I know you’ve come to kill me! Go ahead and do it!” Draco screamed, shaking. His vision blurred, but the man in black was there. Was it Greyback? Was it Amycus Carrow? Was it Rookwood? Whoever it was, Draco knew that this was the end.  
  
He grabbed his father’s wand tightly and put it to his temple. He couldn’t face the fear any longer. Even if death waited just outside the dining room doors for him, he couldn’t face the pain. Voldemort would come back again one day, and Draco would be disemboweled at least. He thought of his parents, ran his finger over his father’s wand, and with more clarity than he had felt since his mother died behind him, he began to speak.  
  
“Avada…”  
  
 _If there's a master of death I'll bet he's holding his breath,  
As I show the blind and tell the deaf about his power,_  
  
“No!” Harry shouted and wrestled Draco to the ground, knocking the wand out of his hand.  
Draco cried out and struggled, tears falling from his eyes. When Harry finally had him pinned to the ground, he went limp, sobbing uncontrollably. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes clenched shut and he breathed roughly through his nose.  
  
“Just don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me anymore…please,” Draco cried. “Just end it quickly. Let me see my mother.”  
  
Harry jumped off of Draco, scrambling back until he slammed against the opposite wall of the dining room. He looked over at Draco, pale and drawn with dark circles around his eyes. He had a tear stained face and he looked so frightened that Harry thought they were back in the fire.   
  
“I can’t do this, I can’t…” Harry choked out, trying to get up. Suddenly, two pairs of hands gripped his shoulders.  
  
“We is having trouble keeping him alive, Harry Potter!” He recognized the high pitched voice and innocent, wide eyes of Winky the House Elf from the Hogwart’s kitchens.   
  
“All of the house elves with any freedom have been taking in turns trying to help Draco,” Kreacher croaked, glancing back at Draco, who was still gripping his wand tightly and crouching in a corner.   
  
“But I’ve got my life together now! I don’t need this, Kreacher,” Harry said, but even as he ran his hands through his hair, he knew there was no turning back now.   
  
“We is thinking a wizard could be telling Draco it’s okay,” Winky piped up, her watering eyes making Harry sigh with resignation. He was already resenting this turn of events heartily.  
  
Just as Harry was about to throw his arms up and work out a plan, Draco straightened his back. He looked slowly around the room and took in his surroundings. His vision had cleared and his breathing was slowing down.   
  
“Potter?” he whispered. Harry looked at him and nodded, fearing the new reaction from the volatile Slytherin. “Why are you here?”  
  
“Followed my house elf.” He shrugged, trying to avoid Draco’s newly-clarified vision.  
  
“How charming,” Draco sighed.  
  
“Come on, Malfoy. You need to eat something.  
  
And with that, Harry followed a pair of unfamiliar house elves into a large, steel and black kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. He made two sandwiches, poured some juice, and set them on the table. He sat down across from Draco, and watched as his shaking hands picked at the fine, French bread. Harry thought that he might have been having another nightmare, but a painful bite to his tongue proved that wasn’t the case.  
  
 _Can I be used to help others find truth,  
When I'm scared I'll find proof that its a lie,_  
  
Draco woke up in his bed for the first time in ages, and he felt safe. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept for more than a few hours, let alone the last time he was safe enough to do so. He took a moment to take in the welcome sight of his comfortable room before the scene came racing back to him.  
  
He remembered the fear, the irrational desperation, and the need to die. Then, he remembered Harry Potter, flying through the air on top of him. Draco licked his lips as he thought back to the sandwich he had eaten in those awkward few moments before the elves had dosed him with calming draught and sleeping potion again.  
  
Draco lurched up, frantically searching for Potter, but he was nowhere to be seen. He walked slowly over to his bathroom and sighed in relief when the tap ran warm water into the bathtub. Draco couldn’t explain it, but the knowledge that Potter was out there made him feel like all the darkness was at bay for a moment. He didn’t pause to consider the development as he was free from his own mind and he wished to revel in it.  
  
After he dried off, he tried to ignore the burgeoning fear that made him want to rush to the dining room and crouch behind the table. He put on some jeans, the first time he had been out of pajamas in months, threw on a shirt he buttoned but didn’t tuck in, and went to survey his home.  
  
Draco had moments of lucidity like this, moments when he could breathe, but they were so rare that he had forgotten what he had done the previous time he felt this normal. Before the panic set in again, Draco made his way to his father’s study, taking in the condition of the Manor as he went. He wondered what kind of disrepair he had let his legacy fall into.   
  
He sauntered into the study, breathing in the scent of old books with reverence. He didn’t hear the patter of house elf feet, and he assumed that Potter had left. And instead of feeling like he would die if he was alone, Draco welcomed it.   
  
That is, until he saw the bloodstain on his father’s favorite oriental rug. He remembered that stain. That was his blood. The Dark Lord had taken the loss of Potter and his friends form under their noses particularly hard. He ordered Draco to stand naked in a room of Death Eaters as The Dark Lord ranted about ineffective followers.   
  
Then, The Dark Lord had taken his wand and cut long strips of flesh from Draco’s back. He cried out and fell to his knees, only to have a spell pull him back to his feet. He was bleeding in every region of his body before everyone was finally allowed to leave the room. Draco stood there, unmoving, until he lost enough blood to collapse.  
  
As the memory swirled around inside of his head, Draco fell to his knees. The shaking was back, and he could feel the wounds reopening against his skin. He knew for sure that The Dark Lord was coming back to finish what he started in that room. Draco took in deep breaths, but he couldn’t seem to get any air.  
  
He felt distinctly non elf hands grip his shoulders tightly, but Draco couldn’t stop. He had to get away; he had to make the cuts stop. He ripped at his shirt, tearing away pieces of the delicate white fabric as though it were his own skin, falling off under the Dark Lord’s wand. He screamed and begged him to stop, something he couldn’t do last time.  
  
“I’m not hurting you, Malfoy!” Someone shouted in his ear. “Malfoy…what?”  
  
Draco flinched as the panic subsided and he realized his shirt was hanging in tatters from his body. He couldn’t stop shaking long enough to do much more than wrap his arms around himself. He brought his knees to his chest, closed his eyes, and hoped that Potter wouldn’t look at him anymore.  
  
“Where are those scars on your back from, Malfoy? Who did this to you?” Potter asked, reaching up and touching one lightly. Draco shied away.  
  
“You did it when you escaped the manor with that filthy little elf.” Draco tried his best to sound menacing, and he thought it worked, because he heard Potter get up.   
  
“That filthy little elf was fucking killed by your people!” Potter shouted. Draco threw his arms over his head and hoped that Potter’s wrath wouldn’t be too painful.  
  
There was an awful, heavy silence that stretched on for eternity. Draco tried to hold perfectly still, because in his stillness, he may not draw too much attention to him. He clenched his fists and waited for the blow.  
  
“Christ, Malfoy. What did they do to you?” Potter kneeled down next to him, close enough for the warmth of his body to radiate against Draco’s bare skin. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and an embarrassing sob. He jumped when he felt Potter touch his back.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Potter whispered, and he pulled Draco against his body.   
  
He couldn’t help himself; Draco let his body shake until he finally felt at ease. He could feel his heartbeat slowing back to normal, and he could finally breathe. He felt absurd in Potter’s arms, but also so overwhelmingly safe that the horrors of his past seemed like jus the past. He wished ardently for a way to permanently replicate the feeling.  
  
(((())))))  
  
Harry had wholly shocked himself by embracing Draco, but he felt like no one had needed him more than Malfoy did in that moment. He hated himself for getting so deep into something so quickly, after trying so hard to maintain a normal existence, but he couldn’t help himself. The thought of the pain that would have caused someone like Malfoy to fall to pieces was overwhelming.  
  
Harry wanted to continue to hold Malfoy for as long as he could, feeling that in that simple act, he was facing his own past as well. Everything he had kept so firmly hidden within himself had risen to the surface to bring the empathy that he needed to regard Malfoy. He ran his fingers softly over the chunky scars on Draco’s back.   
  
“Tell me, Draco. Tell me all of it. I’ll hear it.”  
  
And with that, the floodgates opened. Harry’s opened in his mind, bringing back his own feelings of fear and uncertainty, and opening his eyes up to really see Draco Malfoy. The blonde let his story tumble out of him, and over the next few days, he kept letting a little more out. Harry took it in, and watched Draco become lighter because of it.  
  
He heard of the threats from Greyback, the way he would run his nose up and down Draco’s neck and threaten that his time was coming. Harry learned how Draco was forced to watch Grayback feed on his prey, watch their entrails hang sickeningly from Grayback’s fangs.  
  
Harry took a vacation from The Ministry, and after three days, Harry heard of Draco’s punishments, the bloody and psychological torture he would have to endure to pay for his parent’s minor transgressions. Harry sat in silence as Draco sat on a fine sofa with his hands on his lap and told Harry of the time The Dark Lord had taken Draco’s genitals in his hand and threatened to end the Malfoy line with one fell swoop.   
  
Harry excused himself when he thought it was safe and vomited in the nearest bathroom.   
  
“I disgust you, don’t I?” Draco asked, not looking in Harry’s direction.  
  
“No, they do. They did this to you.” Harry said, rinsing his mouth out. “Besides, the Draco Malfoy I know wouldn’t care what I thought.”  
  
“Oh but I don’t! You’re a filthy little wretch with ridiculous hair,” Draco said, turning up his nose, and smirking as he walked down the hallway.  
  
Harry spent two more days there, and managed two more smiles as well. He never thought he’d be so happy to see a smile on Draco Malfoy’s face…on anyone’s face really. But he craved Draco’s happiness.  
  
The thought of how intertwined he was to Draco’s emotions, to his life, in just a few short days had shocked Harry back to reality. He realized that for the past week, he had been absent from work, from his home, and from his friends, while he spent his time holed up in a manor house trying to repair his former enemy.  
  
He slipped away when Draco fell asleep, and went back to Grimmauld Place. He slammed the door loudly and hoped that he would wake up his roommates so he could explain himself to them all at once. Sure enough, Ron and Hermione came rushing, half dressed, down the stairs. They were followed by George, and a very embarrassed looking Angelina.  
  
“Guys, I’ve been…”  
  
“At Malfoy Manor helping Draco Malfoy. We know,” Ron said, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Kreacher explained everything to us,” Hermione said, looking sadly up at Harry.  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t have given that elf so much freedom, he spilled all of your secrets,” Angelina mumbled.  
  
“Oh my master is doing good for his fellow wizard. Oh my master is making great progress. Oh my master’s got the most beautiful knob…” George was cut off of his uncanny imitation of Kreacher by quelling looks from Angelina and Hermione.  
  
“Seeing as how you are back, Harry, does that mean you’ve convinced Draco to get some help?” Hermione asked gently.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why the hell not! He’s fucking batshit! Not like I wouldn’t be either, considering his house guest during the war, but still. He needs a real healer,” Ron said, his eyes wide in disbelief.  
  
Harry stood silent under the penetrating gazes of his friends. He realized they were right, and he wondered why he was so reluctant to send Draco away. The thought hit him like a horde of rampaging hippogriffs: He didn’t want to be away from Draco. Harry swallowed hard, sadness filling up his chest at what he had to do.  
  
 _Can I be lead down a trail dropping bread crumbs,  
That prove I'm not ready to die,_  
  
Draco woke up to the elves giving him a hearty breakfast. His head was clear, but it had been the last four days he had woken up. He sat up cautiously, looking around to make sure no danger lurked in the shadows, and then moved over to the table in his bedroom for breakfast. He asked an elf where Harry was, but he just shrugged.  
  
After his bath, he came out of his suite to find an elf packing Draco’s things. He saw Harry sitting in a chair and supervising. Draco smirked slightly.  
  
“I’m not moving in to that awful home of yours, Potter,” Draco said with mock melodrama.  
  
“Oh…um…no….Listen, Draco,” Harry stuttered.  
  
“Out with it. Are we taking a trip?”  
  
“You need help. These panic attacks, this paranoia, this depression…it isn’t going to go away. I’ve found a great private facility in Cornwall, and I’ll pay for everything-“  
  
“You’re going to throw me to the dogs! Do you have any idea what will happen if I’m out in the world unprotected! They will kill me!” Draco began to shake again, and looked around desperately for a place to hide.  
  
“They won’t. You’re safe now. I killed Voldemort, and the remaining free Death Eaters could never break the facility’s wards. It’s only for a few months,” Harry said cautiously.  
  
“A few months! I’ll never make it! I’ll die,” Draco couldn’t breathe.  
  
“One week ago, you were about to kill yourself. You need help, and I can’t pretend I know what to do to help you,” Harry said, burying his head in his hands.   
  
Draco’s heart sank when he saw how worn and frustrated Harry looked. He didn’t want to put his only ally, the only person who cared if he lived or died, through this kind of pain. He began to walk around his room on weak legs and put a few more belongings into a trunk.   
  
Harry stood up and walked behind him, taking a pair of trousers out of his hands. “Let the elves do this,” he whispered. Draco sighed at the warm breath on his ear.   
  
“When do I have to leave?” Draco said, a tear falling down his cheek.  
  
“A few mintues. I didn’t want to give myself time to change my mind,” Harry whispered.  
  
“Change your mind?”  
  
Harry nodded and slid a finger up Draco’s cheek. He kissed along the path his finger had drawn before pulling Draco into another relieving hug. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist and reveled in the newfound affection of their touch.   
  
Harry pulled back and kissed Draco softly. Then, he walked over to the trunk and spelled it to float behind him. When Draco stepped outside for the first time in nearly nine months, the sun was shining and the air was cold. One of the house elves took Draco’s hand and they apparated away. Draco didn’t look back. He couldn’t.  
  
 _Please give me time to decipher the signs,_  
Please forgive me for time that I've wasted,  
  
2 months later….  
  
Harry took the letter from the owl’s leg greedily, leaving it up to Hermione to give it a treat and send it on its way. He ran into the drawing room and tore open the envelope. Sure enough, Draco’s surprisingly messy writing was covering a page and a half of parchment.   
  
He had been getting three letters a week from Draco since he was taken to the hospital. Every letter got more coherent and less fearful, and Harry had hope that Draco could have his life back soon. He even began to get back some of that sardonic humor that used to burn Harry up inside, and still made him angry on occasion.   
  
Harry no longer hoped for normalcy, knowing that he would never be able to have that. He just hoped for happiness and contentment. With every letter he exchanged with Draco Malfoy, the more likely it seemed that his former nemesis might be the source of that humble wish. He just hoped that Draco would be able to come out of the darkness that Harry had found him in.  
  
As he sealed and sent off a letter with Pigwidgeon, there was a clutter outside of his front door. Harry jumped, but just laughed.   
  
“George! You don’t have to sneak her out! How many times do we have to tell you that?” Harry shouted.  
  
“What?” George said, appearing in the hallway with Angelina.   
  
“Oy! Mate! What’s with all the yelling! Hermione and I are having a lie in!” Ron shouted from the second story of the front foyer.  
  
“Some lie in. It really kills the mood to hear your brother moaning in ecstasy,” George mumbled darkly.  
  
Just then, the door opened slowly, and Draco Malfoy was standing there, pink cheeked with a look of haughty indifference on his face. Harry could feel a smile stretch across his face, and while he craved an answering one on Draco, settled for the satisfied gaze the other wizard gave him.  
  
“Oh bloody hell,” Ron yelled, slamming the door to his bedroom. Harry looked behind him to see George and Angelina tiptoeing into the kitchen. He walked slowly and uncertainly toward Draco.  
  
“I’m not going to bite. I can get out my literal bill of good health if that would ease the tension,” Draco sneered.  
  
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said, silencing the other wizard’s comeback with a sound kiss.   
He certainly hoped Ron had decided to leave the house; he wasn’t going to want to be around for what Harry had planned.  
  
When Draco’s fingers laced in Harry’s hair, and his tongue began to slip into Harry’s mouth, he sighed. It was a contented, happy sigh. Soon, as Draco pressed his body firmly and hungrily against Harry’s, his sigh turned into a hungry moan, and he just barely managed to keep breathing. Draco was shaking, but this time Harry felt certain it wasn’t out of fear.


End file.
